


The Prime

by Aard_Rinn



Series: Crime in Crystals [6]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24518410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aard_Rinn/pseuds/Aard_Rinn
Summary: Praxus is a city rotten from the inside out, where the glitter of crystal hides deep shadows.Unfortunately for them, Prowl and Meister aren't the only mechs stalking the dark places of Cybertron...
Relationships: Hound/Mirage (Transformers)
Series: Crime in Crystals [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749994
Comments: 117
Kudos: 250





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter takes place one orn after the events of Epilogue II in "The Capture".

“So, Praxus is a slaghole. Please don’t send me back.”

Bumblebee relaxes back into the soft gel of his chair, helm on one arm, legs flopped over the other. His vocalizer still has the static scratch of a fresh installation, but his plating, at least, has been repaired, and his glass replaced. Optimus looks down at him with an amused smile.

“You did a commendable job in a tough situation, Bee -”

The minibot snorts. “Yeah, I know. I’m a commendable agent - that’s why I’m re-commending that you never send me there again. That was awful.”

Mirage gives a soft chuckle, nodding agreeably. “I’ll see what I can do, Bumblebee. Optimus and I reviewed your official report - what was it like on the ground?”

“The whole city’s rusted, ‘Raj - Prime. Honest.” He huffs. “Look, I’ve spent time undercover in Tarn, Kaon - I mean, some really rough, violent places. Gotten slagged pretty bad for it, too - but I’ve _never_ been anywhere as top-to-bottom _corrupt_ as Praxus.”

“Corrupt?” Optimus leans in slightly. “How so, specifically?”

“It’s everything, Prime. The enforcers, the governor - the whole civil infrastructure is _run_ by the gangs. It’s the only power that seems to matter - and they’re _blatant_ about it.” He shrugs. “Primus as my witness, I think Prowl might have been the only clean cop in the city.”

“They were that bad?” 

“Yeah. Harassing mechs, taking bribes, but it was more than that. I hooked up with Rhodolite’s gang pretty early, and there were cops straight-up walking in off the street, in livery and everything, to talk to her.” He gives a frustrated gesture at the memory, a short sharp jerk of his hand.” Didn’t matter what was going on, didn’t matter if she was in the middle of having some poor mech slagged - they’d’ve walked straight past me, no problem, if they’d been there.”

Mirage gives a considering look at that. “On her payroll, or did she have something on them?”

“As far as I could tell, payroll, but it didn’t pay to ask questions.” He frowns. “Some of them might have been blackmailed. As far as I can tell, that’s what she was trying to do with me - she mentioned seeing if my cop would come for me. I think she was trying to blackmail Prowl, offer to spare me in exchange for some kind of favor.”

“A tactical processor like his would have been invaluable to a mech like her.” Mirage gives a hum of agreement. “And once she has proof he’s worked with her, she has leverage to force him into future compliance.”

He and Bumblebee share a look - it’s a maneuver they’ve used often enough themselves to be intimately familiar with.

Optimus gives them both a concerned look - he’s got enough experience working with the pair of them to know when they’re contemplating things he’d rather not think about, and deftly steers the conversation back onto a less-nefarious path.

“So what sort of things are the gangs involved in? Is it specialized by gang, or…?”

“Depends.” Bumblebee shrugs, gesturing widely. “They’re all violent, but beyond that, there seemed to be a lot of variation. Rhodolite’s crew dealt in hired muscle and drug smuggling - not the actual dealing, she had a couple of smaller gangs who handled that for her, but they controlled a big chunk of the river and brought the stuff in. Titanium is - I guess you could call him a kingpin. His crew dealt with money - fraud, forgery, white-collar stuff. Everyone in the city knows who he is, he’s probably more the governor than the Governor. Other gangs handled other stuff - gambling, bloodsport, mech trafficking…”

“And the whole city is wrapped up in this?” Optimus hesitates, looking torn between alarm and confusion.

“Nah, there’s plenty of mechs just living their lives - but anyone with power, or with something the gangs want? Yeah, they’re gonna be involved.” He gestures to his own injuries. “But everyone knows not to cross the cops, or the gangs, or they might just tear your throat out.

“Slag.” It’s rare to hear Mirage curse, which makes it all the more poignant when he does. “That’s… much worse than we thought.”

“We let the war distract us for too long.” Optimus nods his agreement. “When Praxus began to isolate itself, Sentinel should have intervened. _I_ should have intervened, when I ascended the Primacy -”

“You had slag to do, Prime.” Bumblebee waves off the larger mech’s self-recriminations. “No mech is going to blame you for not paying more attention to our quiet neighbor to the east when you were busy saving us all from Quintessons.”

“And yet, my own subjects were _enslaving_ their fellow Cybertronians while I stood by and did nothing. Quintesson slavery, or Cybertronian - I doubt it made much difference to their victims.”

It’s the sort of well-placed emotional rebuke that Optimus excels at, and both Bumblebee and Mirage wilt a little at the force of their commander’s disappointment. He glances between them, optics dimming a little at the reaction. “I did not mean that as a criticism. You two have done everything I asked of you - the fault is mine, for not turning your optics on Praxus sooner.”

“Sure.” Bumblebee doesn’t sound convinced, but he shoots a half-smile at Optimus anyway.

“So… Prowl.” Optimus seems eager to latch onto another topic. “Who is he? How did you meet him?”

“He’s an enforcer - a transfer from Iacon. Around… oh, a vorn or so after I reached Praxus, I ran into some issues with a group of enforcers. Nothing major, but I needed someone to help me clear up the paperwork. I pulled the records, and saw he was one of Ultra Magnus’ - figured it’d be interesting to see how he was adapting to the force.” He shrugs. “He wasn’t. Looked like he needed a friend, so once he finished fixing my papers, I slipped him some information on Rhodolite - just a bit of gossip, but he latched on. I offered to be an ‘informant’ out of gratitude for his help, which gave me some great insight into the Praxian enforcers right up until one of his coworkers saw me go into a building with him and ratted me out to Rhodolite.”

He pauses, glancing between them. “I’m just going to remind you, for the record, that I don’t want to go back to Praxus. Ever.”

“Hm.” Mirage leans in a little, his expression giving the definite impression that he’s heard Bumblebee’s request, considered it, and summarily disregarded it. “What was he like to work with, as Jasper?”

Bumblebee considers that for a moment. “Prowl was… well, nice. Professional, definitely. He didn’t really seem social, I guess? Didn’t ever talk about spending time with the other enforcers, or friends, or anything. But he was never rude.”

Mirage nods, and Optimus takes the chance to ask his own question. “Did you ever see him interacting with citizens? How did he comport himself?”

“Only once or twice. It would have been dangerous for my cover to meet with him in public - usually we handed off information pretty quickly, unless we could do it in private. I tailed him on-shift a couple of times, early on - he was respectful, didn’t harass anyone.” He pauses. “Honestly, I’d say he was a model cop, if you’d asked me an orn ago.”

“That matches up with what Ultra Magnus said about him in his reviews.” Mirage nods. “Always stellar performance, strict about propriety for himself and officers he was working with, not unnecessarily aggressive with minor violations. He’s got more than a millennia of commendations with the Iaconi Enforcers, and only a couple of minor complaints, none of which ever went anywhere.”

Prime leans back, looking at the two of them with concerned optics. “And now, a century after transferring to Praxus, he’s working with an assassin.”

Mirage vents a sigh, almost-silent. “Yes. Beyond doubt. Bumblebee ID’d Meister immediately, and Meister himself confirmed it - and he and I have both carefully reviewed his recordings of ‘Raider’, and agree that it’s definitely Prowl. The frames are identical - and the colors ‘Raider’ was wearing match a darkened version of Prowl’s brother, Smokescreen,’s palette.”

At an inquisitive glance from Optimus, he shakes his helm. “Definitely not the brother - he was rebuilt to a different chassis after an incident last centivorn, although they’re both Praxians.”

“Alright.” It’s Optimus’ turn to sigh, the frustrated sound echoed by the rumble of cargo engines. “What do we know about Meister?” 

Bumblebee shrugs. “Not a whole lot. He’s an assassin - works out of Praxus, and as far as we can tell, he stays exclusively within the citystate. By reputation, he’s a hitmech, and a talented one - expensive, and very good at his job. Polyhexian frame, matte-black, heavily modded for stealth and an expert infiltrator. Beyond that, not a lot of chatter - he’s a boogiemech. Cops don’t bother chasing him - lots of theories that he works for Titanium directly, though obviously no substantiation to that. Until last orn, ‘Raj and I hadn’t had much reason to go digging - I wasn’t into anything that should’ve drawn his attention, and a mob hitmech, even a good one, isn’t that big a deal.” 

Mirage picks up from there. “Prowl’s involvement changes things. With his record… there was no reason to suspect he would willingly work with a gang-affiliated assassin, but rescuing ‘Jasper’ was obviously a personal mission - if Meister was compelling Prowl’s assistance, there would be no reason for him to involve himself. Bumblebee and I reevaluated all of Meister’s known hits with that as a framework.”

“He’s not working for a single mech, that much is obvious.” Bumblebee takes back over, having handled most of the actual analysis while he was berth-bound. “Looking at the big picture, it’d make more sense if he was hiring himself around - which would almost explain him working with Prowl, if Prowl had hired him to assist in rescuing me. But I got to know Prowl pretty well while I was his ‘informant’ - and I hacked into his financial records, sorry, Prime - and he doesn’t have the sort of creds something like that would take. He’s well enough off, but hiring a mech like Meister is out of his range, unless he was doing Meister a favor on the side, or Meister owed him one.”

“That doesn’t sound unreasonable…” Optimus glances down at him. “You think it’s unlikely?”

Bumblebee nods at that. “Prowl’s clean, Prime. Like, squeaky. Honest to Primus, if I hadn’t seen them working together, I wouldn’t believe you if you told me - he’s the kind of clean that makes ‘Raj and my plating itch.” He shrugs. “Nah. I think Meister’s got him convinced they’re doing something good for Praxus.”

“Assassinating mechs for the good of Praxus?” Optimus takes a moment to digest that before his optics widen in realization. “You think they’re _vigilantes?_ ”

“It makes a certain degree of sense.” Mirage offers him a datapad, and Optimus takes a moment to scroll through it curiously. “His targets. All of them are gang-affiliated, usually mid-ranked or higher, though he frequently leaves lower-ranked collateral damage. Extremely limited civilian casualties, and never the result of him directly targeting them, despite him being quite willing otherwise to spill energon. The targeting is seemingly random, which would imply a hitmech, but there’s nothing coherent to indicate who might be hiring him so regularly. He has a decision criteria, but we don’t know _what_.”

“And Prowl works with him. Or has worked with him - at least twice. We strongly suspect co-ordination between him and Meister during a recent Enforcer raid - officially, Prowl was ‘redirected’ and fed false data, leading him to raid the wrong facility and leaving Meister free to assassinate his target.” Mirage smirks faintly - this is another area where his and Bumblebee’s experience neatly overlaps their investigation. “It’s a not-uncommon tactic of criminals - feed a tactician enough incorrect data, and you can make them output whatever you want. But we believe it was intentional collaboration.”

“So you believe they’ve been working together for… how long, exactly?”

Bumblebee offers another shrug. “A while, probably. Meister’s earliest identifiable assassinations go back around two centivorns - about four decavorns before Prowl transferred to Praxus, so we know they weren’t working together from the beginning. Prowl’s the real loose variable. Enforcers don’t function well in isolation, and Prowl never talked about _any_ of his coworkers - within a couple decavorns of arriving in Praxus, he was probably willing to latch onto anybody who seemed like they actually cared about the city.”

“I would estimate no more than three or four decavorns of collaboration between them.” Mirage adds. “Although we can’t be certain. Honestly, if ‘Jasper’ hadn’t been an agent, we would probably never have caught them - even tying them together on the Feldspar case was only possible because we were looking for it. There are probably dozens of interactions we’re completely unaware of, even if we assume that Prowl isn’t behind all of Meister’s recent hits.”

Optimus is silent for a moment. “What would your recommendations be, then?” He gestures to the datapad, then sweeps his hand around the room. “For all of this - any of this.

Bumblebee and Mirage glance at each other for a moment before Bumblebee shrugs, gesturing for the noble to speak. 

“We need optics in Praxus. Bumblebee did an excellent job, but we need more information than one mech can collect - we need to know the politics, the power players, the opinion of the mech on the street. I can’t tell you more than that until I have agents - not you, Bumblebee - other agents on the ground.” He hesitates, then shrugs offhandedly. “As far as Meister and his pet enforcer, it’s up to you, really. Obviously, this is a crime - but as of right now, no evidence is in the enforcer’s hands. You could have us provide information to Praxus’ Chief of Police, and let the city take care of it - it would be a debacle, and might wash back on his brothers or even the Iaconi enforcers, but it would be dealt with.”

“You don’t like that idea any more than I do, Mirage.” The Prime’s gaze is steady. “I want your recommendation, not my options.”

“Leave them be.” Bumblebee shrugs as both sets of optics settle on him. “Honestly, they’re doing alright. No reports of them killing anyone they shouldn’t be, and I’ll tell you the truth - Praxus is slagged. It’s rotting, Prime. And if you ordered us -” He gestures between himself and Mirage, “- to deal with it ourselves, we’d be doing pretty much the same thing.”

Mirage nods his assent. “Targeted strikes against high- and mid-value criminal targets, aimed at destabilizing the mob leaders who have managed to concentrate power.” He pauses. “Noise, mixed in with more silent hits. Dead bodies - not just powerful mechs, but their thugs, too, to send a message. The occasional messy tableau.”

Optimus nods slowly. “So - unofficially, of course - your recommendation is to allow them to continue murdering their way through the criminal underground of Praxus until they get themselves caught?”

“Or show themselves to be a threat, yeah.” Bumblebee gives an apologetic grin. “Sorry, bossmech. You asked what we’d do, and we aren’t nice mechs.”

“I do trust your judgement, Bumblebee. And yours, Mirage. Even if I don’t like it.” He shutters his optics, for a moment lost in thought. “It is difficult. I understand your perspective, but… I am still the Prime. I can’t let the situation in Praxus continue, but allowing the ongoing extrajudicial killing of my own citizens…” 

He gives a heavy vent. “You two are confident that their actions won’t endanger civilians?”

“Meister hasn’t in over a century, Prime - and I have a hard time believing that Prowl would push him towards acts of random violence. If anything, he’ll be refining their targets.”

“Then let them be.” Mirage’s face is impassive as ever, but Bumblebee shows his surprise, rocking back in his chair a little. “I trust your judgement. For the moment, while you establish your agents in Praxus, allow them to continue their crusade. Monitor them, if you think you can safely -”

“We can. Or rather, we can monitor Prowl easily - he’s an enforcer, we know where he works, where he lives… Meister will be the challenge.” Mirage gestures into the air. “We didn’t even know he existed until Bee reported on him.”

It’s obvious that that rankles the spymaster, and Optimus gives a soothing hum. “Once we’ve got a foothold in the city, I would like to speak to them.”

Mirage and Bumblebee give each other a _look_ at that. Mirage gestures again. “As I said, Prowl will be easy - you can just order Ultra Magnus to have him recalled to Iacon. Meister will be… tricky. He’s talented, Prime - and he will assume that, whatever we tell him, any attempt to get him to leave Praxus is a trap.”

“I would prefer Magnus not be involved.”

“Oh?” Mirage cocks his helm.

“Prowl’s brothers are both enforcers with promising careers - and Prowl himself has a spotless record. If our conversation were to go… poorly…”

“You’d rather they be left out of it.” Bumblebee gives an understanding hum. “Yeah, I see what you mean. And if Magnus is involved and you disappeared him…”

“I doubt he would stop digging until he had found out what happened, yes.” 

“I like your thinking, boss. Very clever.” Optimus gives him a confused look at that, and Bumblebee grins up at him. “Optimus, Ultra Magnus is like sixty feet tall. I know this is hard for a mech of your stature to understand, but I’d very much prefer he remain just sixty feet tall, as opposed to the other option, which is him being sixty feet tall _and mad at me._ ”

“I find myself in agreement with Bumblebee.” Mirage bows his helm. “In that case, I shall contact Red Alert, and begin -”

A soft, frustrated hum comes from Optimus at that, and he pauses, glancing back up at the Prime. “I would… prefer that Red Alert, too, was uninvolved in this investigation. I am sorry for restricting you so.”

“...Optimus?” Mirage leans back, evaluating the taller mech.

“He… you know how personal a terror assassins are for him.” He vents again. “If he’s involved… I don’t want him to spend the next centivorn looking over his shoulder because he’s afraid of a knife in the shadows.”

“Optimus, he lives on a _moon._ We don’t even know _which moon._ He’s not going to be targeted -” But Optimus shakes his helm, and Bumblebee falls silent.

Mirage nods, slowly. “No, you’re right. If anything would trigger Red Alert’s glitch, it would be an investigation involving an assassin that we did not expressly intend to contain and kill. If, after Optimus speaks to Meister, he decides to free him... it could be centivorns before we got anything coherent out of Red Alert, if he doesn’t resort to something drastic. I can do the bulk of the datawork myself - it won’t be as smooth, but it should hold up to examination.”

“Blaster can assist, also.” Optimus nods. “I’ll let him know that I’ve offered him to you, to make himself available if you need him.”

“Alright.” Mirage vents a little, steadying himself. “So, establish an Ops foothold in Praxus, while monitoring Prowl and, if possible, Meister. Once we’re sufficiently enmeshed, apprehend Prowl and Meister and transport them to Iacon, without involving Ultra Magnus, Red Alert, or Prowl’s brothers.” 

“As my guests. Preferably uninjured guests, Mirage, but I trust your discretion.”

 _That_ makes both Mirage and Bumblebee straighten a little in their seats. Optimus is a trusting commander, but he also lacks the stomach for the worst of Special Operations work, and that often restricts them in their duties. To be let off the leash… it’s a privilege, a show of trust, but both of them also know it for the test it is.

“We will not let you down, my Lord Prime.” Mirage gives a noble’s bow, helm ducking low enough to hide the earnest pleasure curving his lips. “I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! And as we move to Part II of the overarching narrative of Crime and Crystal, we switch perspectives! Time to find out what Bumblebee and Mirage have been up to since Bee's daring escape from certain, smelter-based death. Be prepared for a looot of talking, this chapter - we're gonna get caught up to speed kind of quickly, so we can establish what, exactly, Mirage and Bee have figured out.
> 
> The next couple chapters are going to be following the Ops crew as they work their own perspective of "Five Times" - it won't be spaced as a 5+1, but it will end up converging back into Prowl's POV with his capture by Hound. I figure this will be about 12k words total, focused around introducing Ops and also building up a little more lore about Praxus and the state of the world in general.
> 
> After this, we'll be going back to Prowl's POV, so no worries, people who are waiting patiently for Jazz/Prowl to be a thing. It's coming, and not too far off. Huzzah!
> 
> To everyone who commented on my last couple of fics, thank you so much! I'm slowly getting through everything :D. As of right now, chapters will slow a bit - since I'm looking at a couple of 3-4k chapters, not a bunch of 1k ones - but I'm gonna try to keep up 1/day - we shall see, though!
> 
> All usual warnings about editing apply - also I'm fucking exhausted atm, so if something about this strikes as wildly incoherent, just wait until like noon Eastern time and it should be fixed. It wouldn't be the first time sleepy-time fun-aard has gone wildly off the rails while finishing a chapter. I think I'm good tho. Hopefully.


	2. Chapter 2

From Optimus’ office, they leave and head west down a familiar path. The Iaconi Comms Hub is a towering building, rising high behind the Primal Palace - a thick silver spire rising into the evening dark, glinting almost gold with the light of the setting sun. 

Security brushes them through with only a cursory examination - Mirage, at least, is a familiar face here, and Bumblebee needs only to flash his identification to slip past the guards. 

They ignore the front desk, as well; Mirage idling over to the elevators as Bumblebee dogs his longer stride. The red keycard Mirage presses to the sensor has the doors sliding open within moments.

It’s only once the doors slide back shut that Mirage speaks, addressing the air - and the microphones in the elevator walls. “Hello, Blaster. Official business, this time - sorry for the short notice.” There’s no response, but the elevator slides seamlessly upwards.

A grinning cassette greets them at the top. “Hey, Mirage! Hi, Bee! Blaster said you should just come down to Relay - he’s gotta stay hooked in, for the moment. Or you can come back later - we should clear up some of this traffic after joor twenty-eight!”

“Hey, Eject!” Bumblebee grins back at the smaller mech as Mirage nods a greeting. “Nah, we’ll come now - official stuff. Maybe we can hang out this evening, though?”

“Sure thing - Ramhorn’s taking over for me at joor thirty. Want to hit up Ampertura’s?” 

“Sure thing!” They follow Eject down the hall to the Relay Room - the core of the communications tower’s vast network. It’s dimly lit by the blue glow of screens; Blaster’s frame is silhouetted against them, thick datacables coiling out from his frame to hardline into a dozen systems.

Eject returns to his own console, jacking in, and the cables twist and writhe as Blaster turns to face them, wreathing him in a twining mesh of living metal as they coil out of his way. It takes a moment for his optics to online, flaring white before dimming to their usual warm blue.

“Hey ‘Raj, Bee! How can I help my two favorite mechs today?” He gestures to the corner, where a pair of chairs have been pushed to the side - Mirage takes a moment to set one up for Bumblebee before settling into his own seat. 

“Official business, I’m afraid. I apologize for not coming by more regularly -”

Blaster waves off the apology with an easy smile. “We’ve all got slag to do, ‘Raj. It’s all good! Been a while since Ops had any kind of ‘official’ need for me - what’s going on?”

“Optimus has requested we investigate corruption in Praxus.” Here, in Blaster’s own lair, is one of the most secure locations on Cybertron, so he doesn’t hesitate to speak - not even Red Alert can penetrate the layers of protection on a datamech’s relays. “Since it’s within your territory, I thought you would be a logical first point of contact.”

Blaster gives him a surprised look at that. “Nah, mech, you’ve got that all wrong - Praxus isn’t far, but they’re on their own loop - I see why you’d think it, though, I border their territory on all sides. Mechs that keeps the singing in _those_ spheres are Twincast-Nightlight-Torrent-Citrine-Carbide-Zircon.” He rattles off the names in the signature manner of hostmechs - the carrier’s name, followed by his symbionts in the order of bonding. Three of the names are distinctly Praxian, but the carrier’s himself isn’t, nor his first two cassettes.

“Where did he transfer from?” Mirage settles back in his seat. Datamechs keep to themselves, despite being quite social - the exact borders of territories and who manages each region are decided privately between them. Exact information is hard to get without asking one; fortunately Blaster, as ever, is willing to talk.

“He’s out of Protohex-region. A relay - he was posted at one of the Rust-Sea shorehouses, little town called Orrihex.” It takes Blaster mere moments to grab the information off the tight-run inter-host networks. “Talented - no genius, but Praxus is relatively small for an urban network, and I hub all traffic from the surrounding territory. He doesn’t have the bandwidth for anything larger, but five symbionts and an urban network is pretty good for his age. He’ll be there a long time.”

“Who was there previously?”

The question gets him a surprised look. “That was Selenite-Onyx-Tuff-Flint’s turf, remember?”

The two spies take a moment to dredge for the names, glancing at each other for confirmation before Mirage shakes his helm. “No. Should we?”

“The _murder?_ I mean - I guess it didn’t really get much coverage outside of host circles, but Praxus’ whole network was down for almost two kliks! Slag, that was a nightmare - I spent two weeks bussing their hub, and all of it picking little bits of Selenite’s memories out of the datastream - we tried to keep it quiet, but she was spliced in when she died.” He gives a short gesture to the back of his frame, where the thick cables trail across the floor. “Barely had it back in order by the time Twincast could take over.”

“I… vaguely remember something about the hub in Praxus going down, yes.” Mirage nods slowly. “I didn’t realize it was murder.”

“Oh, pit, yeah - that’d be right about the time that slag with Legend went down, wouldn’t it? And you’d have been picking up the pieces after that.” Blaster nods. “Yeah, terrible stuff. Selenite was a Praxian native, a real quiet mech - didn’t interact much with the rest of us, which is odd, for a host, but her little guys were friendly enough. Real talented, everyone figured she’d move to one of the larger Torus states eventually. And then someone busted into her relay room and shot her.”

His optics go dim. “Brutal. No one knew what had happened - her symbionts followed her down pretty much straight off, and without Selenite they didn’t have the broadcast range to get word out even if they hadn’t. Took me almost thirty seconds to figure out that I wasn’t getting data from Praxus, and then more than a klik to get control over their hub.”

It’s not a long time in realspace - a two-klik interruption in comms and network access is not much more than an inconvenience, even to mechs used to the near-seamless flow of urban communications. But it’s obvious that Blaster, who prides himself on centuries of instantaneous, constant traffic throughout the Iaconi network region, considers it a bigger deal.

And in light of what they’ve already learned about conditions inside the city-state, the murder of a datamech takes on an even more sinister air.

Blaster seems to note their unease. He leans back in his chair, considering them over steepled fingers. “I’ll have Eject pull together the files from that period, and see what he can find you from the newsfeeds.” The cassette leans back from his terminal just long enough to flash them a smile and a thumbs up before going back to his datawork. “But you didn’t come here to ask me about a four-centivorn-old murder case - how can I be of assistance?”

Bumblebee takes the lead effortlessly as Mirage gestures to him. “We’re performing some investigations in Praxus on Prime’s behalf - we’ll need a private dataloop for, say, ten agents. And unfortunately, Red Alert isn’t available to assist, so we’re going to need to handle our own datawork - Optimus said you’d be able to help us out.”

“Can do, though I’m not a hacker.” Blaster nods easily. “You’ll have to feed me whatever you want done, and template it, but I can handle the processing for you no problem. And the loop is ready when you are.”

“We also have a… target, in Praxus. The subject of an investigation.” Mirage hesitates for only a moment. He has the authority to demand Blaster assist with an investigation, but datamechs are notoriously prickly about the privacy and integrity of their client’s dataflow. “I want his comms records, as complete as you can provide them to me.”

That gets him the expected frown. “I can’t give you a lot.” Blaster holds up a hand to stay Mirage’s response. “Not because I won’t comply - but like I said, Praxus is it’s own loop. You’d have to go to Twincast for comms - I’ll only have access to his communications out of the city.”

He pauses again, then shrugs. “I’ll have all of those, though. Praxus relays through me.”

“We’ll work with it. Mech is named Prowl - he’s an enforcer. I don’t have his comm code, but -”

“Got him.” Blaster pauses for a moment, reviewing archival data, and glances back up at Mirage. “Not a lot - I have a ton of chatter up until a little after two centivorns ago. I’m assuming you’re interested in post-transfer stuff?”

Mirage nods. “And ongoing. Mostly from within the last, oh, five decavorns.”

“... That’s interesting.” Blaster gives an odd look as he narrows the criteria. “Nothing at all for the last five decavorns - up until last cycle. Then a message to a mech named Bluestreak, an Iaconi enforcer.” Blaster hesitates. “I’m assuming you’ll want the reply, too?”

“Yes.” Mirage nods acknowledgement as the two messages ping, almost instantaneously, into his own mailbox. “Would it be possible… I’m sorry, I’m not fully acquainted with the capabilities of your clade, Blaster. Could you delay relaying the messages for, say, six joor in either direction? Without Twincast or either of the recipients noticing the discrepancy?”

Blaster’s face darkens at that, and both Eject and Rewind look up in sudden shock. “This is the part where I tell you to go frag yourself, Mirage.” He pauses. “Or I would. Ops… yeah. I can do that. Gonna run it by Optimus, first, though - that’s a slagging big thing you’re asking, Mirage.”

“Confirm with Optimus if you need to. I may also need you to edit the content of messages, or falsify a message as being from a specific sender. Certain messages may need to be blocked entirely.” He gestures to the host. “Please, confirm all of those when you do. Time may very well be of the essence, should I need to request such a thing.”

“You know, Legend was a real sack of slag.” Mirage and Bumblebee both stiffen at the sudden, half-hissed non sequitur from the ordinarily sociable datamech. “You want to tell me why you’re targeting this mech, or has stepping into his pedes turned you into as much of a sparkless fragger as he ever was?”

Mirage’s shoulders are tight, optics brightening at the insult, but Bumblebee throws his hands up in the air in a conciliatory gesture. “Hey, hey - Blaster, of course we’ll read you in.” He turns to Mirage and kicks him in the shin. “Of course we’ll read him in, because _Blaster is completely trustworthy, ‘Raj._ ”

The blue spy glares at him, but after a moment he nods in agreement, and Bumblebee turns back to Blaster. 

“Yeah, Prowl is working with an assassin in Praxus. They’re doing some kind of vigilante thing - Optimus wants to talk to them. We’ve got to figure out a way to get them to Iacon at some point without too much fuss, and we might have to falsify some slag to do that. Nothing beyond that, Blaster.”

The carrier holds his gaze for a moment, optics dark - then his plating slowly settles as he relaxes. “Fair enough.” He meets Mirage’s gaze, voice still cool but no longer openly hostile. “I don’t like working with Ops, Mirage, but I understand it. I don’t mind helping you mechs out every once in a while, but I’m not going to let you pull the same slag Legend did - if I’m assisting an investigation, I want to know why. I don’t need all the little details, but I at least want to know why I’m violating my oaths as a comms handler, and the privacy of my clients.”

Mirage, too, slowly settles at the acquiescence. “That is… not unreasonable.” He hesitates. “I have always considered you a friend, Blaster. I don’t want my position to come between us.”

“Remember that we _are_ friends, ‘Raj, and it won’t.” Blaster gives him a final glance before pushing his chair back, rolling in a smooth motion back to his monitors. “I’ll keep an optic on what’s coming out of Praxus. You need me for any processing, just swing by or send a comm - I’ll be ready for it. Other than that… I’ll let you know what else comes through from Prowl. I’ll be in touch.”

With that, the reflection of his optics on the screen goes dark as he sinks fully back into the datastream. Mirage and Bumblebee rise and slip out of the relay room, taking that for the clear dismissal it is.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They wait until they’re well down the hall to speak - carriers are famous for their excellent audials, and while there’s nowhere in the building that is truly out of range of Blaster’s monitoring systems, it’s at least polite to pretend that they’re leaving his range before talking about him. 

Finally, they’re far enough away that Bumblebee feels comfortable starting the conversation. “That went well, I think. He didn’t tell us to get slagged, he’s not cooperating, so that’s good.”

“He serves at the will of the Prime, Bumblebee. Optimus was clear that we have the authority to request what we need for this case.” Mirage vents annoyance. “He wouldn’t refuse Optimus.”

“Ha!” Bumblebee almost barks the laugh. “He could have told us to frag _right off,_ ‘Raj, and don’t pretend you don’t know it. What would Prime do? Just go grab one of those _other_ carriers capable of handling the Iaconi Hub?” He snorts. “Besides, you’re just as scared of Soundwave as I am.”

“Soundwave is more than capable of remaining professional, Bumblebee. And he’s unflinchingly loyal to Megatron, and through him, Optimus. I’m not _afraid_ of Soundwave.” He pauses for a minute, before a flicker of laughter teeks in his field - he knows he’s being teased. “Besides, he isn’t even on-planet right now.”

“You don’t know that! He could be lurking right around the corner, ready to _wreak cruel justice_ on the mech who dared cross his Amica!” Bumblebee grins, wiggling his fingers. “Wooo!”

That does get a soft chuckle from Mirage. “A petrifying impersonation, Bumblebee. Truly, you loom like the spectre of Mortillus himself.” He lets a hand slip to rest companionably on the minibot’s helm. “But it is good that Blaster is willing to work with us. I hadn’t realized such an… enmity… existed between him and Legend - I would have spoken to him about it sooner, if I had known that was the case.”

“Eh, Legend was kind of a bastard to everybody. But you know how seriously Blaster takes his work - and even with Prime giving the say-so, the other hub’s’d be _slagged_ at him if they thought he was tampering with their messages.” Bumblebee shrugs. “I get him wanting to know why, at least.”

“It’s hardly the least reasonable request I’ve had made of me in the last half-millenia, certainly.” Mirage nod along. “We can work with that, especially if he’ll be content with only a basic description of the case.”

“Yeah. Speaking of requests - a ten-mech private dataloop, huh? Getting a little optimistic there, I guess - do we even have ten agents?” Bumblebee’s tone is teasing, but Mirage considers carefully the question behind it.

“Hmph. Hound as team lead. If Praxus is as dangerous as it sounds, I want the bond as reassurance - I don’t want to risk our team getting cut off without contact. Skilled as Blaster is, he can’t do anything about a comms blocker on their side.” He mulls over his other options. “Punch and Flipsides, I think. They can transfer their covers over from Kaon, now that the situation over there is under control; that should give them something to build from with the Praxian gangs. We’ll need optics on the inside.”

Bumblebee nods his agreement. “Yeah, they’re a solid choice. We’ll need to keep a close optic on things, though - might even need to give them permission to drop their cover, if they’re in danger. Last thing we want is them getting knifed by a theoretically friendly assassin.” He considers their remaining roster a little more carefully. “Send Skids.”

“Skids?” Mirage pulls up the theoretician’s file. “An interesting choice. He’s certainly… Praxian.”

“You’ve never worked with him before, huh?” At Mirage’s nod, Bumblebee bobs his helm. “He’s not a huge fan of fieldwork, and without a solid tactician it’s been a while since he’s been out of Iacon, but I’ve done a couple of missions with him. He picks stuff up fast - really observant, and he has those great Praxian sensors - and he drops right out of existence as soon as you stop looking at him. He’s not stealth, or anything - just blends into a crowd like no mech you’ve ever seen, even with the doorwings. He’ll be invisible in Praxus.”

“A good choice to trail Prowl, potentially?” Bumblebee nods, and Mirage gives a pleased hum. “The four of them will have to do, for the moment. We’re spread too thin to pull any more - at least until things in Nova Cronum settle down.”

“I don’t think things in Nova Cronum have _ever_ settled down, ‘Raj.” That earns him a short laugh from the blue mech. “But I’ll let them know to get ready - it’ll probably be an orn or so before Punch and Flipsides can extract, and we’ll need to debrief them before re-inserting them. Do you want Hound and Skids inserting first, or should we hold them?”

Mirage shrugs. “Insert them now, I suppose. It’s the less-risky position; even if they get made, we should have plenty of time to intervene from Iacon.”

“Got it, boss.” He begins compiling the necessary messages, contacting agents, pulling up snippets from his time in Praxus in preparation for assembling covers, as Mirage focuses inward on his own work.

They ride the elevator down in silence, and slip back out past the guards into the fading glow of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, and we meet Blaster. I love the carriers from G-1 - they're such an interesting idea. Cassettes, too, are adorable.
> 
> So, just in case it wasn't clear from the text - carriers in this AU are data specialists who manage communications worldwide. They've each got a territory that they handle data from, from the most powerful ones, like Blaster (who handles communications for Iacon and all of the surrounding region) to Soundwave (who is a military comms specialist who handles inter-ship communications for Megatron offworld) to weaker ones who might only handle comms for a single ship, or who work relay stations in remote areas as signal boosters.
> 
> When a mech comms, the comm is picked up by the carrier for that area, who receives the signal on their super-sensitive equipment, registers the intended recipient, and then broadcasts it back out. If the message is for someone in another citystate, they relay the message to that city's carrier, who transmits it - that's why they've been writing letters: it would be too much effort for the carriers to transmit regular conversation-style comms, so you package a longer note for transmission instead. Sometimes those messages have to bounce from carrier to carrier to get to someone, if the distances involved are vast - that's why Blaster says he's a relay for Praxus; their carrier is relatively weak, since he only does limited transmission out of the city, so he packages stuff up and sends it to Blaster, who sends it to wherever it's going.
> 
> It's a huge function - Blaster has a whole team of lower-ranked carriers who slave their systems over to his in the same way Prowl and Jazz did to handle the massive quantities of data, and he's hooked into a supercomputer to give him the extra bandwidth he needs. They get the occasional break during low-traffic times, but otherwise, it's not just a job, it's a lifestyle.
> 
> The message he shares with Mirage is the one from Chapter 1 of "Five Times". We're gonna rejoin them after a time skip to "The Festival", I think - to give us a chance to see what they've figured out!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter occurs two cycles after the events of "The Festival" in Five Times.

“Mirage, I’ve figured it out.”

Mirage glances up at Bumblebee, who’s looking at him with wide, earnest, _untrustworthy_ optics. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I’ve figured out what’s up with Prowl.” He lays his hand on the half-stack of datapads in front of him. “I’ve looked through every scrap of information we’ve collected, read every single report Skids has sent in, and I’ve come to the conclusion that _Prowl is the least interesting mech in the universe._ ”

Mirage grabs a chair and pulls it up to the desk, settling down before kicking his pedes up on top of it - unacceptably casual, if anyone else were in the Ops offices, but he and Bumblebee are alone. “Report.”

“Yeah, he’s really just dull as slag. Or he’s the best Ops agent ever framed - but then again, one of our agents would know that it’s a tell to be _this slagging uninteresting._ ” He gestures, again, at the datapads. “I mean, I kind of knew he was a work-obsessed loner, but he has no _life_. He goes to work, he goes home. He has one friend - a mech named Jazz, Polyhexian, probably Meister but we’ll get to that - with whom he will occasionally visit a cafe in downtown Praxus, or, seemingly at Jazz’s urging, one of a number of shops. He has no other regular contacts outside of work. He goes home, or he patrols the city. He is a _sad sack._ ”

“He has no other regular haunts? No bars, nothing?” Mirage is surprised by that - most mechs have between ten and twelve regular stopover locations, at least. 

“One or two. There’s a clinic he visits several times an orn in Praxus’ upper west side. Probably connected to Meister, but on observation, it’s a legitimate free clinic - plenty of patient flowthrough, and the medic’s licensure all checks out.” He offers a datapad to Mirage. “Jazz and Prowl both refer to him in conversation as Ratchet, but it’s an assumed name - there’s paperwork going all the way back to the Central Iacon Medical Academy for the same mech under Triage, and his patients use the same name. Presumably they don’t want to be overheard discussing him, although I’ve got no clue what sort of capacity he’s assisting them under.”

Mirage flips through the datapad - a wholly unremarkable education, followed by a passable series of internships before his accreditation. A handful of stills taken by Skids match up with the frame on file exactly - it’s definitely the same medic.

“Tell Skids not to push further in that direction.” At Bumblebee’s surprised look, he shrugs. “Optimus does want to fix the city, and shaking down a medic who’s actually doing some good won’t endear us to him or our targets. We can always use him as leverage later on, but I’d rather not risk drawing attention to ourselves so early.”

“Fair enough.” Bumblebee nods. “I’d like to get one of our mechs into Prowl’s house at some point, but I’m fairly sure that he meets with Meister there - and none of the mechs we sent are really infiltrators. If you pay Praxus another visit at some point, I’d like you to give it a shuffle, though. Prowl definitely has at least some security measures set up, but I’m not sure how extensive, and I don’t want to risk someone less skilled than you bumping into Meister in a dark apartment.”

“I’ll take that under consideration.” Mirage doesn’t quite preen at the compliment, but he does have a satisfied smirk - while Meister has shown tremendous talent, they know for a fact that his sensors aren’t powerful to anticipate Mirage even when he’s within arm’s reach of the assassin. “If I’m in a position to, I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thanks. From what Skids has scouted from outside - he’s got one of those big Praxian-style balcony windows, you can see right in from across the street - his home is as boring as he is, but there’s bound to be goodies stashed somewhere.” Bumblebee takes the datapad back and slots it back into place in the stack. “Now, Jazz is the real interesting bit.” He lifts out another datapad, this one tagged with red tape. “Take a look at this.” 

It’s got a number of files on it, but Mirage draws his attention to the one Bumblebee indicates - a four-klik video file. He presses play, and watches in silence as a group of enforcers harass, and then assault, a lightly-built Polyhexian singer who looks, admittedly, nothing like Meister. The Polyhexian first pleads with them, producing what looks like a permit on heavy, official-use flimsy, and becomes steadily more agitated as his instrument is smashed - but when the enforcers turn on him, he crumbles - not resisting at all as they toss him around.

At no point, however, does he show even a flicker of anger, or aggression - just fear, upset, and a slowly rising sense of panic as the cops get rougher.

“Hmm…” Mirage considers the video carefully, freezing the shot to flip through it, frame-by-frame. “He’s a good actor, if he is Meister - I don’t know if I could play the victim so flawlessly, if it were me.”

“I could.” Bumblebee’s voice is confident. “Have, pretty often. But I trained for it - and I’m not a fighter. And going limp and taking it like that - even if you know what you’re doing, it’s _hard._ ”

Mirage contemplates that for another moment. “Have we identified the officers involved?”

Bumblebee nods. “Nothing’s happened to any of them - no professional reprisal, which seems to be the norm for Praxus, but none of them have wound up dead in their berths, either. It’s only been two cycles, so I’m going to give it some time to shake out, but I’d say he’s got a remarkably even temper.”

It’s a promising sign - a steady, _sane_ assassin is much easier to deal with than one prone to lashing out, even if retaliation against the officers would have been more than reasonable. Mirage and Bumblebee have both worked with assassins who relish the chance to take revenge on mechs who ‘wrong’ them - it’s not an uncommon trait - but it’s something that has to be carefully handled and directed, and that can place the mech’s handler at risk.

Mirage flicks through the rest of the file, taking the opportunity to review the mech’s appearance - helpfully cross-referenced with the stills of the assassin pulled from Bumblebee’s memory files. While Jazz looks nothing like Meister, he’s a dead-on match for the assassin’s blue-and-gold transformation. “Interesting - a microtransformation? Or something more substantial?”

“More substantial.” Bumblebee calls up one of his own downloaded memory-files before handing the pad back to Mirage. “Watch that.”

The whirl of plating and armor that follows is effortlessly elegant - a POV shot of Meister transforming into the blue-and-gold armor. It’s not a microtransformation, that much is obvious, as plating spins out of the way and is replaced from subspace - not a dramatic enough shift for the mech to be considered a true triple-changer, but close.

“Very impressive.” It’s not a set of mods he’s unfamiliar with, but it’s one that’s vanishingly rare outside of special operatives - and even then, it’s energy-intensive and exhausting. Punch and Flipsides are both masters, but reviewing the context footage of Meister’s transformation shows none of their characteristic personality shifts - the assassin moves with the same easy grace in both forms, not even his stride differing. “And we have no idea who modded him?”

“None. Meister’s got no history before he wound up in Praxus - neither does Jazz, for that matter, although finding personal information on him has been like gripping smoke.” He shrugs. “I’d guess Triage, but nothing in his files suggests he’d be even nearly capable of the sort of delicate surgery that would require. My bet would be that he was someone’s pet project - for all we know, he was framed as an assassin by one of these gang lords and went rogue.”

“They did a good job of it, then. Complementary mods and a well-suited spark - if he was built for it, it was done expertly. Have we had any luck tracking him?” Mirage flicks through the datapad again - pictures of Jazz, of Prowl and Jazz, but only a handful of blurry stills that might be Meister.

“So… yes and no.” Bumblebee waggles his hand back and forth, ambivilating. “Yes, in that Jazz is slagging easy to track. Polyhexian frame stands out in a crowd, and he’s making no effort to hide - up until two cycles ago, he would grab morning energon at one of a couple restaurants about five times an orn, then spent his mornings through mid-afternoon singing in front of that park, grab another cube of fuel from a local stall, then visit shops or the clinic - sometimes with Prowl, sometimes without. Problem is that when that’s done, he’ll vanish.”

“Vanish?” 

“No trace at all. He’ll round a corner, or walk into a building, and Skids hasn’t been able to figure it out for the life of him, but he’ll just be gone. Same with days he doesn’t show up - not a trace.” Bumblebee glances up at Mirage. “I told him to back off - last thing we need is Meister making him.”

Mirage hums his agreement with that. “Tell him if he suspects he’s been made, to loudly start declaring his affiliation, and contact Hound for an extraction. I don’t want him in any sort of danger - but based on his level of skill, I suspect Meister will prefer interrogation to outright execution if he suspects he’s been caught.” It’s not a guarantee, but the assassin has yet to harm innocent mechs, or even lash out at enforcers - there’s a decent chance that Skids loudly proclaiming that he’s an agent of the Prime’s will be enough to stay the killer’s hand.

“Will do.” Bumblebee tosses a note onto the datapad he’s currently writing in, and leans back.

“How about correspondence? Anything interesting there?” Mirage isn’t eager to end the conversation - Bumblebee’s much more interesting research is a balm after joors of reviewing file after file sent back by Hound, Punch, and Flipsides - depressing records of abuse, crime, and criminality at every possible level of Praxian society, from enforcer corruption to gang warfare.

Bumblebee gives a small nod. “Well, we’ve had… three letters to, and two letters from, Prowl so far, not including the initial set. And that’s it.” He pauses. “Not just for him - in general. I asked Blaster to pull records for both Jazz and Triage, and there’s nothing. No messages in, no messages out, no records of Jazz coming out of Polyhex - the only option we’ve got left at this point is Twincast, and that’s obviously not an option…”

“Not at this point, no.” Mirage sets the datapad down and leans in when Bumblebee pulls out copies of the messages. “What have you pulled from them?”

“Honestly, they seem to be just… regular messages. If he’s trying to encode something, he’s either not very good, and I’m just missing it, or he’s excellent and I can’t see the genius of it, because he’s super-stilted. Strong written accent - he’s stayed just as formal as that first note, it wasn’t an apology thing at all.” He gestures. “Couple of references to other mechs, but they’re all accurate within the context of the note - I checked into Trailbreaker, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe and they’re all regular cops, nothing terribly interesting.”

He pauses for a moment. “Ultra Magnus came up; Bluestreak recommended they make contact, and Prowl agreed. He trained Prowl - much as I hate to say it, how certain are we that he’s completely uninvolved? Is there any chance -”

“No.” Mirage shakes his helm and almost laughs. “No, Bumblebee. In Primus’ name, I swear, we are not investigating Ultra Magnus for _sponsoring an assassin_. If, by some strange surge of madness in Primus’ Will, Ultra Magnus _has_ decided to sponsor an assassin, I am more than happy to be thwarted by his cleverness and _never find out._ ”

Bumblebee grins. “Had to ask, boss.”

“Well, please never ask again. My helm aches just thinking about it.” He gestures. “What else was in the letters?”

“Chatter, mostly. On Prowl’s side, lots of shop talk - a bit of discussion about Bluestreak’s new team, a bit of mentorship on managing an enforcer team. More recently, some audio files - I had Blaster pick them apart, even held the more recent message an extra three joor so he could analyze them on his off shift - he didn’t pull anything.” Bumblebee leans back. “I’m around 90% sure that Bluestreak is completely uninvolved, at this point.”

“I’d be inclined to agree with that. All three of them have similarly clean records - the eldest brother is a bit of a gambler, but that’s not uncommon with enforcers in highly-social postings.” He shrugs. “And Smokescreen is immaculate - he’s been doing high-value target-work with the Torus-region enforcers for the last two decavorns, and they scour down to bare metal before giving clearances.”

“Pretty much like we figured then - Prowl drew the short straw, and Praxus slagged him.” Bumblebee grins. “Too bad for them. It’s gonna be nice to have an Ops Tac again, though.”

Mirage laughs. “So eager? He’s going to be coming for your spot - Second-In-Command is usually Tactical.”

“No more awkward official meetings? I get to go back to doing fun spy stuff full-time? I _can’t wait._ ” Bumblebee grins. “Besides, I’m still next in line - eventually, you’ll pull that hoi-toi noble slag on the wrong mech, and he’ll be _my_ SIC.”

“Fair enough.” Mirage leans back. “How are you feeling about luring him in for that little chat Optimus wanted?” 

“Eh, good enough. Obviously, I hate every single thing about this idea, but hey - Optimus wants us to drag an incredibly dangerous assassin to Iacon, probably spitting mad, Optimus gets a spitting mad assassin in the middle of Iacon.” He shrugs. “Any chance we could just have Hound hide around the corner instead?”

“Of course not, Bumblebee.” Mirage’s tone is curt, but his field flickers with amusement. “Optimus will almost certainly decide, at some point, to _cross into range_ of that assassin, probably to do something dumb and tactile like clasp him on the shoulder emotionally. Still, a good thought.”

“That’s our Prime!” Bumblebee grins again. “So, just looking at this all together, I’d say we have a couple options. In my opinion, we lure Prowl to Iacon, grab him off the street, and then have Hound -”

“Me.” Mirage interrupts with a raised hand. “I appreciate my bonded’s abilities as a team lead, but he’s in no way equipped for negotiating with an assassin. He would get _slaughtered._ ”

Bumblebee nods agreeably. “You, then - we can swap you two out beforehand, that shouldn’t be an issue. Point is _somebody_ goes to Meister and tells him we’re going to slag Prowl unless he surrenders.” He pulls back up the pad with images of the two mechs together and gestures. “I’m almost certain they’re involved, by this point. Bring some muscle in case he lashes out, but I think if you push a little, he’ll cave - especially if you make it clear that this is an Ops thing. It’ll sell the threats.”

“And then we stasis him and drag him back here? It’s not the worst plan.” 

“Yeah. Give them a few days in adjacent cells to settle down and get any escape attempts out of their systems before we let Prime know we’ve got them, though - otherwise he’s just going to be dealing with a slagged-off assassin and an angry cop, and Primus only knows how that’ll go. We can feel them out a bit first.”

“That sounds like a -” _plan,_ is what Mirage means to say - but a distant **THUMP** , like thunder cuts him off, followed moments later by the roll of a shockwave. “Bomb. That was a bomb.”

Bumblebee is already on his pedes, moving towards the door - a pistol slipping out of his subspace. “Slag -” He’s already comming out, contacting the Prime’s guards, as Mirage vanishes from sight - slipping up behind him with a gentle tap on his shoulder as he draws his own rifle. 

As they leave the soundproof walls of the Ops offices, they can hear screaming. Bumblebee breaks into a sprint, Mirage dogging his heels like a shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaa, it's more of my spy guys. I love writing these two - they're so much fun to play off of each other. Next chapter's gonna pick up with the same thread, wrapping up "The Festival" and moving into "The Commander" before the final chapter following these guys - at which point we're going to regroup with Prowl, regaining consciousness in the present day.
> 
> I have to say, I really enjoy writing these chapters generally - I realize that this story in particular is mostly groups of characters talking to each other, but a) I really like writing dialogue, and b) it gives me a chance for some exposition about the world that's harder to do in more movement-oriented scenes. Even something like the first two stories was really more about the interactions between Meister and Prowl, despite it literally being just them sitting and talking, so it's nice to get a chance to frame the world a bit, even if it's pretty late in the story.
> 
> As always, thank you so much to people who commented on the last few chapters, and everyone who's reading along! I hope you're all having as much fun reading this as I am writing it, and thanks for sticking with me as we zoom towards 80K! :D


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Bumblebee’s done washing soot and ash off of his frame, Mirage is already slumped, half-offline, on a cot in the corner of Ops. It takes all of his effort to drag his own cot beside the noble and flop down beside him, already slipping into recharge as soon as his frame touches the foam -

And, of course, that’s when the priority comm from Blaster comes through.

::Hey, my mech - got another one for your Praxian friend. Bluestreak sending outgoing - I’m sending it to you.:: The message dings his inbox a moment later. Beside him, Mirage stirs with a muttered curse - and Bumblebee, himself, groans. 

::Blaster, mech - I haven’t slept in three cycles. Please, not now -::

::I’m gonna need your feedback on this one pronto, sorry. The message is coming from a Priority-2 relay at Iacon General - I’m not going to hold it for you for more than a joor, and I’ll go to Prime on that.::

It’s completely, frustratingly reasonable - Priority-2 means that Bluestreak is a patient, or next-of-kin to a patient, in non-critical but serious condition. Blearily, Bumblebee opens the message, taking a moment to read through it.

::Send it.:: There’s nothing in it that sticks out immediately, and he’s too tired to run a decent analysis in a joor, anyways. ::Hold any replies, though, Blaster - this is delicate, but me and ‘Raj are exhausted. Please, for the love of Primus, give us at least five joor unless he says he’s coming immediately.::

::Got it. Sorry, mech - you two did good work out there, but I couldn’t wait on this. Get some ‘charge - I’ll send Steeljaw by with fuel in the morning.:: Blaster, mercifully, cuts the call, and Bumblebee is asleep the moment his helm hits padding.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They get their five joors - overshoot, in fact; the sun is high by the time Bumblebee stirs out of recharge. He nudges Mirage awake, checks his comms, and then drags himself out of berth to check the door.

It’s closed, and undisturbed since the night before - a quick check of the cameras shows Steeljaw padding his way down the hall with a box and dropping it off at the door. Bumblebee opens the door, gives the box a quick scan, and then pops it open. 

“Hey, Mirage - Blaster sent us pastries!” he calls, shooting the other mech a quick image capture of the beautifully decorated treats before sliding them unceremoniously, box and all, into a bin and trotting over to a cabinet to pull out two cubes of rich, carefully-tested med-grade.

He hands one off to Mirage before downing the second himself in a few long drags. As his fuel levels creep over 40%, he feels himself relax a little, system nanites beginning to draw off metals from the enriched energon to repair bruising and nicks in his plating. 

“Wow, what a frag-up.” Bumblebee kicks his cot away from Mirage’s so he can sit on it, knees almost touching the blue noble’s. Mirage grunts his agreement, looking content not to speak until he’s finished his cube. His optics are dim with fuel-deprivation, and as he nears the bottom, Bumblebee drags himself back over to the counter to grab another few cubes.

He manages to neatly slip the second cube into Mirage’s hand as he pulls the empty one away - a practiced trick - and almost automatically, Mirage takes another sip. By the time he reaches the bottom of _that_ cube, he’s perked up enough to grab a third, and Bumblebee is almost impressed - he knows Mirage’s specs almost as well as his own, and three cubes is almost the total capacity of his tanks, which means Mirage spent the night on the very _edge_ of fuel-deprivation stasis.

Mirage stops a few sips short of the bottom of the cube, however, and Bumblebee relaxes as he’s offered the last quarter - not _that_ empty, at least. He downs it, bringing his own tanks to capacity, before Mirage finally deigns to speak. 

“What a _slagging_ mess.” He rubs at the weld-mark on his own leg, where a chunk of rubble had shredded his plating. “I hate festivals.”

Bumblebee grunts his agreement. “At least we’ve got a decavorn before the next one.”

“Fair enough.” Mirage flicks through his messages before glancing back at Bumblebee. “Oh, those were lovely.”

“Yeah, we should send him some enjex or something.” Bumblebee takes a moment to place the order, put it through one of a half-dozen spec-ops accounts, and have half a case of something pricey sent to the comms tower. “Got it. Should show up at an appropriate time this evening.”

“Thanks.” Mirage vents his relief. “Primus - two cycles. We had any updates on standing cases, or have you not had a chance to check?”

“One sec -” He skims through the handful of private comms loops he’s got access to, but there’s nothing significant. “Nothing over here - except that message that Blaster had me clear before we passed out. Anything on your end?”

“Hound has a couple files, but nothing major. He held reports until we were done dealing with the explosions - I’ll pull them through in a bit.”

::Good mornin’, mechs.:: Blaster slips into comms chatter effortlessly as ever, blossoming a three-way connection between them. ::Sorry to interrupt - I heard you mechs were up, thought I’d pop in. Thanks for the enjex, Bee.::

::No problem, Blaster. The pastries were lovely.:: Bumblebee grins at Mirage, who gives a delicate smirk back. ::What’d you need?:: 

::Got a message back from your mech in Praxus about two joor ago. Figured I’d give you a chance to wake up first - you sounded like slag, last night. It’s not for Bluestreak, though.::

::Oh?:: That’s enough to make Mirage perk up. Bumblebee straightens, too, eager for new information. 

::Yeah. Direct comm to - get this - Ultra Magnus. I don’t know much about what you’re doing with this enforcer, but he’s only got like three subordinates that contact him directly - everyone else goes through the precinct’s relay.:: 

Most mechs as highly-ranked as Magnus use a relay - as much to screen out less-important comms as to prevent malicious contacts. Still… ::It’s not too surprising. From what we’ve gathered, Prowl was an apprentice of his.::

::Fair enough. Sending it through, regardless. It had a couple of tickets with it, for the Iaconi Operatic Choir next cycle.::

Mirage takes a few moments to review the message before glancing up at Bumblebee. “Bee, are we ready to move on this?” His smile has vanished, optics now steely with determination.

Bumblebee sees it too, and there’s the same firm look in his optics. “Yeah, ‘Raj.” ::Blaster, we’re going to need you to kill this message entirely. Send the tickets to me, I’ll see to it that Ultra Magnus gets them.::

Blaster is silent at that. ::Really, mechs?:: His voice has a note of desperate helplessness to it. ::Come on, don’t make me slag off _Magnus…_ ::

::Clear it with Optimus, if you have to, but we need this opportunity, Blaster. Kill the message.:: Mirage pauses. ::We’ll need a message returned as if it was from Ultra Magnus, also.::

::We’re trying to lure Prowl to Iacon - but we need there to be no one in Iacon who expects him.:: Bumblebee adds, remembering the carrier’s request. ::It’s rocky, I know, but it should be a lot easier to forge a letter from Magnus than from the mech’s own brother - and Prowl won’t be expecting it. Everyone knows Ultra Magnus can’t lie for slag.::

Blaster is quiet for a moment. ::No, I trust you. ‘Raj. And Prime already gave me the okay to do whatever you two needed for this. I won’t bug him - but if Ultra Magnus comes knocking, I’m setting him on you, alright?::

Mirage’s optics brighten gratifyingly at Blaster’s words, and the smile on his lips takes a more genuine turn as his whole face softens - just for a moment, a flash that Bumblebee would have missed if he hadn’t been looking for it. ::Thank you, Blaster. It means a lot.::

::Not a problem. ‘Raj, Bee, don’t be strangers, alright? And I’ll be waiting for that message. Try to have it ready within the next two orn - Magnus is busy, but he’s very prompt about responding.:: The comm dissolves as he leaves, and the room is silent for a moment.

“Are we really ready for this, Bumblebee?” MIrage’s voice is unhesitant, affirming.

“Yeah.” Bumblebee gives him a grin. “Let’s go talk to Nightbeat.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nightbeat’s office, as always, is a mess - stacks of datapads covering the floor haphazardly, sheets of flimsy clinging to the walls with a hundred mis-matched magnets, a triple-handful of weapons scattered across a table pushed into one corner. Despite the disorganization, the room is immaculately clean - no dust, no trash, no empty cubes, just the chaotic workspace of a chaotic mech.

Nightbeat looks delighted as they enter. He looks away from one set of strung-together flimsies as the door opens, face lighting up. “Commander! Bee! Always a pleasure. You here about that Praxian thing I’m not supposed to know about?”

He works his way around a pile of datapads to sit in his own seat as the pair move stacks of roughly-piled flimsies off their own seats. As Mirage settles down, he offers the investigator an indulgent smile. “Alright, I’ll bite - how did you know it was Praxus?”

“It’s the only thing you two are working on together, these days, isn’t it?” He pauses. “Oh, you mean how did I know you were investigating Praxus? He -” he gestures at Bumblebee, “Had a Praxian train ticket. The medic left it on the counter after you got back with that,” he raises a hand to his own throat, “- you know.”

He grins. “So anyways, am I getting read in, or was there something specific you needed? I haven’t gone digging - I don’t know much beyond that.”

“Edifying as always, Nightbeat.” The investigator’s knowledge is never malicious - decavorns of working with him have been enough to prove that. There’s just no way for him to turn his observational abilities off - the very talent that brought him into Ops in the first place. “I’ll let the nurses know to keep an optic on that. I need a message forged.”

“Oh?” Nightbeat perks up - the same eye for detail that lets him draw nuance from a crime scene or tie together the details of a wide-spread investigation makes him a forger without peer. “Tell me more.”

“We need a response to this, within certain criteria. We’re trying to lure a suspect in Praxus back to Iacon.” Bumblebee pings him the message - as well as the handful of messages between Prowl and Bluestreak leading up to it - and Nightbeat takes a moment to read it before glancing back up at them with a critical gaze.

“We’re forging letters from Ultra Magnus, now? Neat.” The investigator grins. “Alright, give me a second.”

He tosses Mirage a blank datapad after a moment, flipping through the pile under his desk until he’s got two more. “Right. Give me the specifics of what you want on that pad, and I’m gonna start pulling these messages apart for clues.” 

He slides his chair back with a reedy scrape, props his pedes on the edge of the desk, and sets to ignoring them.

It doesn’t take long for them to settle on a handful of points - the need for Prowl to come to Iacon is the most significant. When Nightbeat glances up and sees that they’re finished, he leans across the table to scoop up the pad. “Oh. Huh. Not picky on this one, I guess?”

“We can work around a timetable - we just need him here.” 

“Got it. Well, good news for you is I know how ol’ Mags thinks.” He taps his own helm. “He’s stiff as a rusted joint, but we’re both cops, and that counts for a lot. More than you’d expect, I think. So first off, he’s not inviting Prowl to visit for his injury - get this. He’s inviting Prowl to his brother’s promotion.” He leans back with a satisfied grin. “We can fake the records for that, right?”

Mirage considers for a moment. “It will take a little effort, but falsifying that shouldn’t be a problem. Why a promotion?”

“Mags wouldn’t call Prowl back for an injury unless it was real bad - worse than Bluestreak’s making it sound. Unless you want Prowl back in a panic? But he’d for sure try to get in touch with Bluestreak to confirm, and that pulls the whole thing apart real fast.” He gestures at the datapad. “But it’d be Bluestreak’s first promotion, and since Mags just put him up for a Primal Merit Award, it’ll look super-reasonable.”

“He did? When?” Bumblebee gives Mirage a slight shake of his helm when the noble glances over - he hadn’t heard about it, either. 

“Eh, like a joor ago. It’s not a quick process, but the nominations are public. Alright, and he and Prowl are friends, right? So we’ll add some sappy slag, it’ll throw Prowl. Sappy for Magnus, mind you.”

“Alright…” There’s no point in interjecting beyond agreement, at that - Nightbeat has begun typing furiously, fingers flying across the screen as he moves sentences around, reorders thoughts, deletes and reworks sentences.

“Who’s he seeing the play with?” He asks after another few kliks.

Bumblebee shrugs. “Don’t know - we’re going to slip him the tickets, so he’ll go, but should we really wait until after to reply?”

“Oh, for sure.” Nightbeat goes silent for a moment almost absently, as if he’s forgotten to explain entirely, but after a klik he glances back up. “Magnus is very proper - he doesn’t socialize with other mechs well or frequently, so he falls back on orderly, formal rules of interaction. And -”

“A noblemech would never reply to a letter like this without expressing appreciation for the gift.” Mirage understands it easily, turning to Bumblebee to continue Nightbeat’s explanation as the investigator nods appreciation and dives back into his work. “If it had been a few cycles out, or an orn, it would have necessitated an initial, prompt reply and a secondary reply after the show, but with only a cycle, it would be more proper to attend and then respond.”

“If you say so.” Bumblebee’s voice has a touch of doubt, but he nods. “In that case, yeah, we still have no idea.”

“Fortunately, it’s not like Magnus is effusive. I’ll leave it blank and keep it vague - you can fill in the name before you send it. Do you want to be buying his ticket to Iacon? That was a joke - you do, and you’re going to want a hotel room, too - otherwise he’s going to contact his brother and ask to stay with him.”

“I don’t suppose you have a list of Ultra Magnus’ top five hotels for visiting enforcers?” Mirage waves his hand, his tone half-joking - but Nightbeat only nods. 

“Of course. There are only three hotels within close proximity to the precinct that are visited by enforcers with any frequency - we’re a pretty picky bunch. Anybody visiting for work is going to want at least a private showers and a berth large enough for two or three mechs, and a couple of places have set up rooms specifically to our tastes.” He flicks through his files for a second, before grabbing another datapad and typing something it. “Noxer's Blocks is closest to where Bluestreak lives, and within Prowl’s old patrol radius. He’ll be comfortable with it. Plan for a morning train - Bluestreak works morning shifts, so if Prowl doesn’t arrive in the evening he’ll want to visit the Precinct.”

“But if he arrives in the evening, we could slip out own mech in…” Mirage smirks. “There’s a reason you’re the best, Nightbeat. Thank you so much - you’ve helped us immeasurably.”

“Not a problem, not a problem -” He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s what I do. Here, give me another joor to have this written up, let me fiddle with syntax a little. Don’t get the room yet - Magnus would wait until he had confirmation to reserve it, and Prowl will be able to see the time of reservation.” 

“Sounds good. Send it on to Bumblebee when you’re done, he’ll get it to Blaster.”

Nightbeat flashes him a smile and a thumbs up, and then he’s gone again - attention split between six datapads and a sheet of flimsy, relentlessly perfecting his craft. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes a second for optics to adjust as they return to the hall - the dark-painted walls of Nightbeat’s vault make even the standard lighting of the base seem shadowy compared to the crisp white lines of the hallways. 

Bumblebee starts off down the corridor, getting a few steps ahead so he can turn around and jog backwards. “So when are we going to switch you and Hound? Do you want to wait until we’ve got Prowl, or…” 

“No.” Mirage shakes his helm curtly. “We’ll have to move quickly once Prowl is secured. I’ll go tonight - I’ve already let Hound know. I’m going to bring Road Rage with me as muscle - she’s probably got the experience to take Meister in a one-on-one fight - and I’m going to have Moonracer join us from Tetrahelix to take over as handler for Punch and Flipsides for an orn. The last thing I need is for us to lose track of them because Meister killed me.”

“The last thing we need is Meister killing you, ‘Raj. So don’t do that.” Bumblebee grins. “Rager’s a good choice - I’ll go pull her now, give her the short version, and you can finish briefing her in on the ride.”

“You’ll be in charge while I’m gone; Hound will be acting SIC. Keep in touch - stay wary with Prowl, even once you’ve got hold of him. Enforcers aren’t Ops agents, but that processor of his will make him a handful.” Mirage gestures downward. “Keep him in Ops lockup - a guest of Optimus’. I’d rather we have Ironhide onboard for this, if possible - but that’ll have to go through Optimus, and you know how Ironhide can be.”

“Pfft.” Bumblebee cycles his optics dismissively. “I know how ‘Hide gets around _you. I_ was a scout before _I_ went Ops - he loves _me._ ”

“Then you can get him onboard for a couple orns of guard duty. Brief him in, if you have to - I’m sure he’ll feel much warmer towards the idea if you present it as putting him between an assassin and Optimus.” Mirage shrugs. “At least he makes a good first impression. Speaking of - you keep out of sight, understood? I’m not too worried about it, with the kibble off of you, but I don’t want to deal with the fallout of one of them recognizing you until we’re ready for it.”

“Wasn’t planning to. _I_ don’t want to get murdered by an angry cop.”

“A solid choice. I’ll see you in a few joor, Bumblebee.” Mirage brushes a hand over his companion’s helm, taking a moment to push a thin silver thread of affection towards the smaller mech’s field before letting his longer stride speed him on down the hall. Bumblebee trails him for only a moment before his own turn - one deeper into the sprawling hallways of Special Operations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, there's so much setup to do before kidnapping a bunch of guys. You gotta do the paperwork, set up the cells, pick your team, go to Praxus... complicated! A lot of the smaller stuff is going to be skimmed past - We're going to end this next chapter with Mirage arriving in Praxus, and then move back to Prowl. At some point - well after Jazz is caught and the discussion with Optimus, probably when I hit a brick wall writing-wise, I will do a two-shot that shows exactly what happens from Road Rage and Meister's POV - do a double-framing with the chapter, which will be Meisters.
> 
> Anyways, I gotta fly - off to visit my Grandma, but I wanted this up before-hand! Let me know what you think of our steadily expanding crew of Ops guys - and if you can think of any Autobot spies/stealthy-types that aren't accounted for, HMU because the 'Cons are in space and _I am running out._ :D
> 
> Road Rage, BTW, is the G1 bodyguard/IDW Camian femme. Other Road Rages are available.


	5. Chapter 5

“Lord Mirage.” Road Rage sinks into a shallow, elegant bow as she catches sight of him - Mirage returns the gesture with a bare, courteous nod of his helm before taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist in a courtier’s greeting. 

“Road Rage - a pleasure. I hope the journey here was uneventful?” 

“Of course, my Lord. Bumblebee was very kind.” The two had travelled to the station by shuttle, rather than drive, in deference to her preferences - Mirage himself had chosen to take the chance to stretch before spending twenty joors on a train.

He gestures to the train itself, a high-speed light rail that will have them in Praxus just after moonset. “Shall we find our car?”

“Of course, my Lord. As you wish.” Road Rage bows again, every inch professional courtesy, and falls in behind him as he strides to the end of the train, where the private carriages link up.

Fortunately, his is the only private car, and Mirage lets himself relax a little, though he keeps it from his face and field with a lifetime’s experience. One of the railmechs stands by to assist them with the carriage, but Road Rage gestures him off with a curt nod of acknowledgement and a softly-spoken dismissal as he unlocks the door.

Once they’re in the train car, he crosses to sit down at the table as Road Rage sweeps the room. She’s careful, working her way around the train car methodically, using her specialized sensor array to scan for particles of explosives, stray radiowaves, the faint field pressure of sensors. It’s only once she turns back to him, with a curt, satisfied nod, that he rises from the chair and gestures for her to step back into a corner.

He takes only a moment to check the room visually - noting the location of the existing electronics - before activating his own scanners and disappearing, using his sigma gift to prevent interference from his own systems as he sweeps the car for bugs. Road Rage, of course, lights in his detection like a sun in miniature, but beyond that, the room is dark, and silent - nothing to concern them. He sends a quick comm, and Road Rage crosses to the other end of the cart as he scans the area that had been behind her; it, too, comes up empty, and he settles out of invisibility as his plating relaxes fully.

“We’re clear. Come, sit - I picked up some fuel for both of us on the way over.”

At the word that they’re unmonitored, Road Rage sinks out of her more formal posture, though she remains rigidly upright as she settles into her seat. The poise of a bodyguard comes naturally to her, far more easily than even a noblemech’s comes to him, and unlike him, the position doesn’t chafe - she enjoyed her function long before she ever joined Ops. She accepts the cube he offers, and leans back in her chair.

“So Bumblebee tells me we’re doing ‘something dumb, with an assassin’.” She quirks an optic ridge at him. “That’s a quote, mind. He filled me in a bit - said you’d be briefing me further.”

“Optimus has decided he wants to have a conversation with a Praxian assassin, yes. So we are currently en-route to Praxus to attempt capture.” He shrugs. “It shouldn’t be terribly hard - Bumblebee is currently in the process of securing us leverage, and we have a few other buttons to push if it comes down to it. His cover is a street performer.”

He leans back a little more, sipping his own fuel. “In theory, you shouldn’t need to be much more than backup - I’m hoping I can talk him round to complying. In practice… I don’t trust Praxus, Road Rage.”

“More of a bodyguarding mission than I usually get, then?” Her optics narrow to a thin, bright line as she regards him. “You worried about someone specifically targeting Lord Mirage, or…?”

“I have limited contacts in Praxus - I’m more concerned with someone attempting to profit off a random abduction. I’ll be fine, of course -” He meets her gaze with a self-assured smirk, which she answers with a chuckle. “But keep on your pedes. The last thing we need is a firefight sending our target underground.”

“Got it.” She gives a grin, fangs glinting in the carriage’s lights, and gestures for the file. “Now, let’s take a look at this killer we’re after.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trip to Praxus is long, but uneventful - by the time they’ve finished looking over the files, there’s around sixteen joor remaining, and Mirage hoists himself into the berth in the corner of the car. It’s nice - far finer than the cot from the night before, or even his personal berth in Ops, part of Lord Mirage’s cover should anyone bother to investigate the carriage proper.

He is asleep almost as soon as he hits the pad. Millennia in the field have taught him better than to waste valuable sleep laying in berth awake.

Eight joor later, his alarm rings, and he swaps places with Road Rage feeling more alive than he has in cycles - the last of his recharge debt repaid to the cycles spent digging through rubble and soot. He takes the opportunity, as he watches over his recharging partner, to perform his own maintenance, pulling replacement vent filters and a jug of fresh oil from subspace.

Less tired than him, Road Rage wakes up after only five joor. “Need a hand?” She blinks the grogginess of recharge away as she gets a look at what he’s working on. 

“Only with the ventral filters, now. If you don’t mind.”

But she snorts, and plucks the filter he’s trying to fit out of his hands. “Lean forwards, ‘Raj.”

Meekly compliant, he gives in - letting himself relax fully as blunt, professional fingers help set his soot-choked filters to rights.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time they disembark, Mirage can feel Hound’s presence - a spark against his own, glowing like the corona of a sun in miniature. >>Hello, beloved.<<

>>Hey, Mirage!<< Hound’s voice against him is warm. >>My train doesn’t leave for a joor - meet me in the stalls for the hand-off?<<

Officially, it’s a necessary part of him taking control of Praxus as the agent-in-charge - unofficially, their meeting is almost completely unnecessary, the spark-bond giving them more than enough transmission bandwidth to complete the hand-off remotely and securely. Mirage won’t, however, say no to a chance to see his conjux - six orn isn’t the longest they’ve been separated by a mission, but it’s long enough for him to ache to see Hound.

He gestures, and with a nod, Road Rage follows him over to the comm stalls. They’re simple, metal-panelled chambers, with room under and above each stal, and doors that latch shut rather than having a true lock. But each is lined with lead, the thin layer of material enough to serve its function: keeping mechs having difficult conversations - emotional last minute comms with friends or partners, giving or receiving bad news - from buffeting the cramped platform with their fields. 

Currently, only one stall is occupied - and the bond makes it achingly clear that it’s Hound.

Mirage slips into a stall two doors away, Road Rage taking up a protective position in front of the door, and disappears. Undetectable by sensors, he drops to his knees, then his stomach, and carefully slides beneath the intervening stalls.

Hound takes him, gently, by the shoulders as he reaches the green mech’s stall, and lifts him back to his pedes before wrapping him in a hug. >>Slag, I’ve missed you.<<

Mirage returns the embrace warmly, flickering back into perception as he does - the risk of another mech seeing his pedes is low enough he’ll take it, and Road Rage will warn them well before there’s any real risk. >>Merge with me?<< He asks, not quite pleading, and Hound chuckles as his armor slides apart, spark chamber irising open to meet him.

The touch of their sparks is fire, and heat, and sunlight - the welcoming sight of a star in the ink-black of space. It draws him in like a gravity well as the world around them dissolves into periphery, unimportant next to his other half - and, echoed in his mind, he knows that Hound is feeling the same, pulled in by the same gravetic surge. It’s a risk - so, _so_ risky, to do this here, to bare their sparks anywhere but in the most hidden of places - Mirage’s almost spirals shut, the caution he was raised with urging him to close his chest and hide, but Hound’s warm confidence is there, reassuring, keeping the bond open until it can settle and solidify, and the world outside stops mattering anymore.

As the bond solidifies, data begins to pour in a flickering stream between them - transmission simultaneous to thought, as fast as their own processors can access the data, syncing memory and code and file archives until Hound is Mirage and Mirage is Hound -

They split, pulling apart - nova-bright light between them shedding away in great sheeting layers as their minds separate again, as the Hound who is Mirage becomes only Mirage, again, and the Mirage who is Hound becomes only Hound. The ache of absence doesn’t linger long - it never does, not with a bond as old as theirs - fading into a glowing awareness that is everpresent, but not consuming.

Their spark chambers spiral closed in perfect synchronicity - blue glow vanishing as armor slides shut around them. Mirage, almost reflexively, checks his chronometer - less than a klik has passed. Hound can feel him check it - this close, after a merge, Hound can feel everything he thinks, even without the bond-speech - and chuckles, cupping his face in one large hand to draw him into a kiss.

>>Not too long, ‘Raj. I love you.<<

>>I know.<< It’s all he has to say - Hound knows the rest - understands to the spark of him how _hard_ it is for Mirage to say ‘I love you’ back, had accepted that long before they ever merged or bonded. Mirage lets himself sink into the kiss, no matter how improper - how _scandalous_ \- it is for a noble to be _kissing his bonded_ in a train station stall. That thought gets another chuckle from Hound.

>>Not a noble anymore, ‘Raj, no matter you’re acting the part. Don’t let yourself forget that, alright?<< Mirage nods, glancing away as they part the kiss, but Hound catches him again, and his eyes are soft and kind. >>They can’t touch you, ‘Raj. You’re better than all of them now - you could have me, spark and frame, on the steps of your old Tower, and they couldn’t touch you. Don’t forget.<<

>>I won’t.<<

They stand like that for another moment, close together enough that he can feel the warmth of Hound’s frame against his - and then they part, Hound slipping from the stall to brush past Road Rage as Mirage works his way back to his own stall. He takes a moment, once there, to ready his armor - wiping away the scuffs from the ground, the dust, as he steadies himself, awareness of Hound’s movements across the platform like a flame in his consciousness - before pushing open the door and nodding to Road Rage himself. 

She spares him, for only a moment, a knowing smirk before he moves past her and back out onto the platform to hail a shuttle. The day is young, and they have work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, I had... A lot of trouble with this chapter, I'm not really sure why. Either way, we have all of our pieces in place, now - Hound is on his way back to Iacon, where in two cycles Bumblebee's gonna have him club Prowl over the back of his helm, and 'Raj is off doing nefarious shit in Praxus, which should be a good time had by all with no serious injury to anybody.
> 
> Eh, at some point I'm gonna have to recruit some help, print this whole fucker out, and edit it, so at this point I'm pretty happy with this chapter anyways. I'm really really hype for the next section, so I'm not gonna let one chapter hold me back!
> 
> Also, TYVM to everyone who suggested characters for Ops. At this point, we've met everyone but the Ops Medic who's going to be a major player, I think, but you always need a couple extra for filler/side stuff, so I really appreciate it!


End file.
